


Portrait of the Artist, Not the Sitter

by WhyDoesEverythingHappenSoMuch



Category: Dorian Gray (2009), The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Basil is bad at emotions, Dorian isn't murdery, M/M, Purple Prose, Repressed Basil, Strip Tease, Well - Freeform, forward Dorian, he is just kinda vain and very very gay, its what wilde would have wanted, lots of sexual metaphors, mentions of Henry being the worst, not really just metaphors, strong hint of the author's affection for Dorian through out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyDoesEverythingHappenSoMuch/pseuds/WhyDoesEverythingHappenSoMuch
Summary: “I feel I must ask something of you,” Basil began to speak as he busied himself with the task of gathering up various paints.“Ask then, Basil. I hate suspense and I’m terribly impatient.” Dorian sighed, observing Basil’s movements as the man continued to sort through his paints. The care with which Basil chose the colors flattered Dorian immensely.“You see, In all of my art, you are heavily clothed, Dorian. I- I find that I wish to paint your natural figure.”Basil wants to paint his Dorian in a different light.





	Portrait of the Artist, Not the Sitter

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely self-indulgent.

“I feel I must ask something of you,” Basil began to speak as he busied himself with the task of gathering up various paints. Basil hardly glimpses once at the man he was to paint; the various tones of Dorian Gray’s skin were so familiar to Basil that he was able to choose a pallet without so much as a glance toward the object of his art. The soft and blushing red that Basil spread onto his palate was the exact hue of crimson that so often spread over Dorian’s face if Basil complimented him too often. The tint of the blue paint Basil chose for Dorian’s eyes reminded him of the Nile lilies that he had once chanced upon during his travels.

Dorian shifted and slouched further down into the chaise he occupied as he waited for Basil to continue his statement.

“Ask then, Basil. I hate suspense and I’m terribly impatient.” Dorian sighed, watching Basil’s movements carefully as the man continued to sort through his paints. The care with which Basil chose the colors flattered Dorian immensely. 

Dorian lolled his head back over the arm of the chaise and observed Basil’s familiar movements from this new position as if it would reveal some hidden part of Basil’s mind that Dorian had only just missed because he had always been looking at the man right-side up. 

“You seem to return a cardinal value short each time I let you alone with Henry. Next, I’ll find myself having to remind you that ‘hating modesty’ or ‘detesting the shrugging off of compliments’ is no reason to cast off Humility! Virtues Dorian are the fabric of society.” Basil chastised. Dorian could be heard laughing quietly to himself at the sentiment. 

Basil did want to feel offended at his friend's flagrant disregard for his statement, yet he found himself too caught up in the melodious notes of Dorian's laughter to really kick up a fuss. The sound soothed him. 

Basil returned to the blank canvas he hoped to fill with the aetherian beauty of Dorian's features. The empty canvas is the artist’s most formidable opponent, yet Basil did not feel the full intimidating force of the blank space; he rarely did with Dorian so near.

“Oh, but I have lost humility to you, Basil. You tell me that I am beautiful- often. This is, in part, your doing.” Dorian replied, gesturing to himself with the flourish of an ivory wrist, “My corruption seems tandem.”

Basil opened his mouth as if to respond to the comment, but found himself utterly unable to contest Dorian Gray’s statement. He tried once more to speak, now aware of how the silence seemed to call out for some word to come along and break it. 

“Your beauty is merely a fact. I cannot lie by exclusion- to lie is a sin.”

“Oh, the very worst sin. I believe wholly in honesty. Take comfort in that Basil! Here is one virtue you will never have to worry about Henry snatching away from me. Now, you’ve kept me waiting too long for your question- I beg you to indulge me and put an end to this. You are trying my patience.”

“I believe I should just speak as frankly as I am able. I have wanted for quite some time to paint you in- in a different light so to speak. All the other art I have done of you speaks, perhaps, too much of virtues. Your shirt collars are quite chaste, Dorian. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”

“You dislike my shirt?” Dorian responded with what might have been a mock grimace or a real one. The coy tilt of his head only confused his meaning further.

Basil now wrested with the thoughts he needed to express and the words he would need to express them. Dorian watching him- head slightly cocked to the left, flaxen curls tumbling over to one side, brows drawn together upsetting a normally smooth forehead- was not of any help. 

“You see, In all of my art, you are heavily clothed, Dorian. I- I find that I wish to paint your natural figure.”

“Natural figure?” Dorian questioned. Yet, there was something in Dorian’s manner of speech which suggested that he knew exactly what Basil was requesting but took such pleasure in the artists discomfort that he could not help but prod him further.

“Yes. Natural. Come now Dorian, don’t be an obstinate boy! You must understand what I am asking of you. It would be unkind to ask for me to explain it in any further detail.” Basil replied unable to meet Dorian’s gaze.

“Oh, but you could if I asked it of you, yes?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Oh, of course, your virtues! Chastity.”

“Dorian-” Basil began in a resigned manner, resting the brush in his hand above his ear.

“Alright, I’ll agree to this ‘figure’ art. I see no harm in this. The resulting work will be kept privately yes?”

“Of course, Dorian. Are you sure?” Basil questioned, still wary of Dorian’s hasty acquiescence. 

“Hush, Basil. This practice is not uncommon; it’s every other piece in France. The French are much less repressed than we, non? Now” he spoke, brushing some imaginary bit of dust from his jacket. “How do we proceed?” Dorian inquired as he rose from the sofa he had flung himself down on- and resided upon for a few good hours- upon his arrival. 

“Come,” Basil held out a hand to the boy. 

Dorian approached him slowly and Basil found himself growing acutely aware of his own imperfections as one often does when in the company of a beautiful person and to Basil- to most of England perhaps- there was no man nor women more divine than Dorian. In what world is one not utterly disarmed when the causal angel focuses his whole attention on you?

“Shall I just disrobe here?” Dorian inquired, his hand hovering over the first button his shirt. 

“Yes.” Basil exhaled. He found he was very unsure of where to look. Would it be rude of him to watch his friend? Yes, Of course, it would. Nonetheless, the painter was sure his curiosity about Dorian’s frame would triumph over his sense of civility.

“Are you sure? You seem more disquieted than I, and you get to keep your clothing.” Dorian said with a good-natured laugh and stepped lightly toward his friend. Dorian rested the delicate tips of his fingers against the rougher skin of Basil’s face. With only this light touch, however, Dorian was able to redirect Basil’s gaze. 

“Watch me. I'm horribly vain and I’d rather you not deny yourself.” And with that Dorian stepped away from the man.

Basil wanted very much to ask exactly what Dorian meant by ‘deny yourself’ but the words died in his throat as Dorian shrugged off his jacket undid the first button of his white blouse. Dorian continued to unfasted each button slowly and with deft fingers. His eyes were downcast to watch his own movements, but as he reached the bottom of his shirt he glanced back up at the artist. Basil was watching him with rapt attention. Slowly Dorian shifted his shoulders allowing the white fabric to slide down his equally pale skin. The fabric settled comfortably in the crook of his elbows. 

The sunlight that streamed in from the large windows shown on Dorian’s skin; the warm light highlighted his absolute lack of imperfections. He was the picture of youth and juvenescence. Like one of the nymphs, his vulnerability only granted him more power. He glowed with appolian beauty. 

“You are being very performative,” Basil whispered. He had not wished to speak, but the words had made there way out from between his lips without his knowledge.

“I adore stage performances, you know that, Basil. I know that you find me beautiful, and I have no issue with my own appearance, I cannot think of one reason not to allow myself to play a little. Are we not performing in every moment we are around others?”

“My studio is not a playhouse.”

“Would you rather I stop?” Dorian inquired languidly, tilting his head in that way that never failed to manage to disarm Basil. 

“I- continue” Basil sighed in defeat.

The boy continued with a smile and let the shirt drop to the floor. Dorian made slow work of his belt; he pulled at the length of maroon leather languidly. The belt joined his shirt, and then his pants were added to the pile. 

Dorian stood there now, in underclothing only. 

“Basil?” Dorian requested suddenly. 

“Yes?” Basil responded with a jolt, having been seemingly so lost in Dorian that he had missed the very words Dorian had just uttered. 

“This feels quite unfair.” 

“Unfair?” 

“Yes. I am almost completely uncovered, and yet you sit totally done up.” Dorian, of course, was right. The contrast of Dorian's undress with Basil’s near formal attire was a stark one. “I must admit, I feel quite freed by this exercise. Too often we keep what we really mean hidden. There is too little room in society for nakedness of any sort. I get the impression that you have seen my soul long ago, and now you see my body. I have yet to see either from you. I must admit, I'm wildly curious.”

“Allow me,” Dorian stated as he came over to where Basil sat and reached to undo Basil’s silk cravat. The artist was stunned by Dorian’s actions. The silk was unraveled with a flourish and Dorian held it up to his face for examination. 

“What an intricate pattern. What are the flowers? I can see one is the Gladioli, but what is the other green one? Green is sort of an unnatural color for a flower, isn't it.”

In his proximity, Basil found it difficult to articulate himself but was able to respond “Green carnation. It’s not unnatural.”

“Green carnations suit you, I think. I almost regret taking this from you. Not enough to give it back, but do acknowledge that I would if I didn’t find you even more charming without it.” the young man declared with a casual nature that suited him very well.

Dorian turned suddenly and- putting the silk between his lips to free his hands- disrobed himself completely.

Basil here did avert his gaze, and Dorian took notice. That same warm canorous sound burst forth from the young man; his laughter the only sound in the room. It echoed so pleasantly, the most wonderful, accomplished lyric in the grandest opera house in all of Europe could barely dream of moving Basil as deeply as Dorian’s sonorous trills did.

“Shy Basil! Bashful and reserved Basil!” Dorian took up a little song of his own. This tune was a favorite of the young man's. He had invented it some months ago when the painter had absolutely jumped out of his skin at Dorian having touched the man’s knee with his own during the performance some play they had gone to see. Dorian had sung his song the whole walk home.

“I only wish not to cause you discomfort Dorian. I am not being shy. I have seen just every sort of body in my classes, and travels, and various commission.”

“Well,” the boy began, raising both arms above his head and stretching in a most performative manner, “I am not made uncomfortable by your gaze. You have my express permission.”

Still, Basil found, with a hot twinge of embarrassment, that he couldn’t dare to look. He would have made no issue of it, and simply arranged for Dorian to lay tastefully - a crossed leg perhaps. That would have been his course of action if Dorian had not been so set on the painter looking.

“Basil, how are you to paint me if you can’t even bring yourself to look at me! You’ve found some deformity in me finally! And you detest me now! I am your muse no longer” The boy cried out, somewhat in jest, somewhat in real pain.

“Would you just-” the artist began to articulate when Dorian interjected.

“Basil, I will make this very easy and simple. I remember you mentioning you enjoy sketching my hands, and thus, you must have little issue looking at them.” When Basil did not raise his voice to contest the statement, Dorian continued, “Watch my hand’s alone then.”

Basil only nodded vaguely, wary eye moving from Dorian’s eyes to the hand he had brandished in front of his face. Dorian carefully traced over his features. Lilly white fingertips probed at his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Then to his lips; Dorian seemed very pleased with their fullness as he pinched his bottom lip before moving on to his throat.

He tilted his head back slowly, revealing the plane of soft ivory flesh. Neatly manicured nails trailed along the jutting peaks of his collar bones. Along, and along, they went. To his shoulders now Dorian directed his attention, only for a moment though, as he soon retraced the impression of his collar bones and drifted slowly downward. Dorian took the liberty of brushing over one pink and peaked nipple, to the audible hitch in the breath of his audience. 

Dorian had to image Basil’s flushed features, as, somewhere during his self-exploration, his eyes had fallen shut. 

Down further now, until Dorian’s hand met the fine and fair hairs of his sex. Without much thought, Dorian took himself into his own hands for a moment, flesh smooth as always. He might have continued if it were not for the painter’s shout of, “Well! I've now looked, would you be opposed to my posing you now?”

Dorian opened his eyes now, an amused look blooming across his features.

“Of course. How would you like me, Basil?”


End file.
